


Hunters

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time slowed, treacly. Sherlock was utterly aware of the shape of John’s body next to him, the smell of his skin and his blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [constantly_cold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantly_cold/gifts).



> This is a gift for Laur_kenobi for the [Rant Meme Christmas Fic Exchange](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/10843.html)!
> 
> I dithered and dithered over your prompts and eventually just took your love of hurt!John and went from there. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Happy Christmas! :D
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning for some gory parts, and description of an injury.**

The sound of their heavy feet pounded in Sherlock’s ears, rhythmic. It was almost all he could hear, aside from the beat of his heart and his billowing breathing, and behind him it was echoed, quicker and softer. John; sure and steady.

They were the hunters, and their quarry darted ahead of them in the grey-dusk. They’d tracked him from the roadside, from where his abandoned van had been left in a waterlogged ditch, and before that along miles and miles of winding lanes, following a trail of leaking oil far past the outskirts of London.

They hadn’t spoken since they’d left the car, all energy reserved for gulping in freezing air, keeping steady on slippery rocks and mud, for keeping pace with the man ahead of them. He was beginning to tire; Sherlock could see it in the slip-slide of his footprints, in the clumsy shape of his stride, less sure with every step. John made a noise behind him.

“Ahead,” he said, huffing, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the paleish bobbing line of the horizon. Sure enough, a dark shape caught his eye; McGuire, crawling over a rock and then dropping back down into darkness. Sherlock picked up the pace, eyes fixed in place. John dropped back a little but Sherlock dismissed it, unimportant. They were almost on him, and there hadn’t been any more movement. He was close.

Around them was an open stretch of scrubby field, no trees in sight. It was almost completely dark now, and the light had a grainy quality that made it difficult to tell what was moving and what was just shapes swimming on the surface of his eyes. Sherlock blinked slowly as he scanned the lumpy horizon, frustrated by the inefficiency of the human retina. The only sound was of his own slowing breathing; John must have stopped much further back.

So where was McGuire? He couldn’t have gone far, but it was so dark that Sherlock was forced to admit that they could have missed him. He swore, then suddenly caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Had that been a trick of the light?

It hadn’t! There was a stifled sound, a shout, and then - horribly loud in the darkness - a gunshot. 

Sherlock whirled around, but where before he’d been able to see the faint shapes of the landscape, now it was as black as pitch, the cloudy sky completely obscuring the moon. There was a wet-sounding gasp, not too far away, and a scuffling sound. He began to run.

If it hadn’t been so dark, the scent of blood that rose suddenly in his nostrils might not have seemed so overwhelming. He’d have seen John first, been able to find him, but to suddenly _smell_ him like that, thick and metallic, made him choke. He must have made a sound, because there was a soft rustle of movement, and then John, John’s voice.

“Sherl’ck?”

Sherlock dropped to his knees and moved his hands out carefully, trying to breathe through his mouth and ignore the way every muscle in his body seemed to be warring against each other, trembling, weak and fumbling. Now that he was close, he could just make out the shape of John’s body, and even in the dark he could see the strange, unnatural angle it was twisted at.

“John,” he managed. “John.”

“Been shot, Sherlock,” murmured John, and his consonants were wet and blurred together.

“Where?” Sherlock snarled. He wanted to touch, but he was afraid of what he might find. His hand found skin. Fingers, limp and cold, but twitching to life under Sherlock’s touch.

“Dunno, I think--” there was a soft sound as John lost his train of thought, stopped to breathe. “I think, maybe, maybe my stomach.”

“We have to,” Sherlock breathed, dread settling cold in his stomach, “we have to, to move you. To call, oh, hell!” He jerked his hands away from John’s skin, ignoring the soft sound of protest, and fumbled for his mobile.

Mycroft first, then, then Lestrade, no! Lestrade was uselessly in London. The police. What was that number? He’d deleted it. He dialed clumsily, fingers slipping on the buttons, and John made a soft groaning sound.

“John’s been shot,” he barked, when Mycroft answered. “Stomach. My phone has GPS, I’ll leave it on.” He heard himself stumble over the words. 

Mycroft was serious and intent, and he’d come, he would come. “Hold on,” he said. “Hold on, Sherlock.” Sherlock clutched at the phone as the line went dead.

“What do I need to do? Tell me what I need to do, I can’t--I can’t see.”

“Hurts,” came John’s voice, all small and wrong.

“ _John_.”

“Fuck, it hurts, Sherlock.” He gave a little sound, a sob. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut. He was going to pull McGuire limb from limb. He was going to slit his throat. He was going to _destroy_ him.

He needed to pull himself together. John was breathing more shallowly, little gasps, and Sherlock could feel that he was beginning to shiver, though whether it was from the shock or the cold he couldn’t be certain. He flicked as quickly as he could through the apps on his phone and found one that would act as a torch, then he paused before turning the light on John.

Black always had been very good at hiding bloodstains. If it wasn’t for the awkward curl of John’s body, or the smear of red on his pale mouth, he wouldn’t look injured at all. His jacket was open (he’d been running, overheated) and both it and his t-shirt were dark. At first glance, Sherlock couldn’t see much at all.

He twisted the phone, trying to get a better look, and there, god; a wet sort of gleam appeared on the fabric, over his lower belly. In one of the folds of the t-shirt there was an edge of ragged fabric, and through it a glimpse of dark, viscous red, lit stark and horrible by the pale light of the phone.

“S’it bad?” John rasped. He tried to move, cried out and fell still, and Sherlock fumbled for him, to clutch at his freezing fingers.

“Stomach wound, as you said,” Sherlock said. His voice felt like it was coming from another person. “Can you tell me what to do?”

“Staunch--staunch it. With something. Scarf? Pressure.”

Of course. Of course, staunch it, why hadn’t he thought of that? He cursed himself as he scrambled for his scarf, tugging it from around his neck and bundling it carefully.

“It’ll,” he started, moving the light from the phone to John’s face. “It’ll hurt.”

John squinted. There was blood on his chin. “Had worse,” he managed, and grinned with a mouth full of red teeth.

“Shut up,” said Sherlock, “shut up and hold still.”

The bottom of John’s t-shirt was sticky-wet, and Sherlock peeled it upwards as carefully as he could, trying to keep his hands steady. He’d seen bullet wounds before, of course, but usually on corpses, and this was _John_ , who was warm and alive and bleeding out in front of him. The entry wound was small and mostly round, oddly shaped at one side where the angle had been off. It was surprisingly neat, just a little dark void, sluggishly spilling blood down John’s side and onto the ground. John shifted with a soft groan, and the blood surged.

“Don’t _move_ ,” Sherlock snapped. He bundled up the scarf tightly, paused, then pressed it to the wound.

“Fuck!” John gasped. “Mother _fucking_ hell, oh god, oh god, you bastard.” His face was partly illuminated by the light from the phone, and Sherlock could see that his cheeks were wet, ghostly pale.

“Don’t remember it hurting this much,” he panted. “Keep--keep pressure on. I’ll go into shock, prob’ly. Talk,” he stopped, panted a bit, “talk t’me. Cold.”

“You’re shivering,” said Sherlock. “Shivering is good, it means you aren’t hypothermic.”

“M’a doctor, Sherlock,” said John, his tone slightly petulant. He shivered harder, gasping a bit when it shifted his stomach against the pressure of Sherlock’s hand. “Mycroft coming?”

“Mycroft ex machina,” said Sherlock, and John giggled, which made him grimace and swear.

“Better hope he gets here in time then,” he managed, after a few moments.

“Your sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired,” said Sherlock, whose trachea seemed to be twisting itself in knots. John gave a wet sort of huff, then quieted apart from his laboured breathing. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” said Sherlock. He could feel the beginnings of warm, tacky blood seeping through the scarf against his fingertips.

“Talk to me, then,” murmured John. “Tired.”

“I...yes, fine. About what?”

“Don’t tell me you’re lost for words,” John croaked out, shifting against him with a gasp. “And to think I might not live to tell the tale.”

“Shut up,” said Sherlock. “Shut up and stop being ridiculous. I could--there’s an experiment I’ve been working on, radix pedis diaboli--”

“Thought you didn’t want me to fall asleep.”

Sherlock gave a surprised huff of laughter, glanced up to where the phone light was softly illuminating the underside of John’s jaw to see his mouth was bowed in a smile. He shifted the scarf and pressed more firmly, and began to speak in a low murmur, listening to the soft, regular sound of John's breathing.

-

It was after about ten minutes that John stopped shivering. Without it, there was a sudden, unsettling stillness to everything; even John's gasped breaths were softly shallow, almost inaudible, and Sherlock swore, dithered, swore a little more.

“Hardly ever hear you swear,” John slurred out. “Kind of sexy.”

“Fuck off,” said Sherlock, and John didn’t even giggle, just gave a half-hearted sort of wheeze. “You need to keep warm.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Again, this might hurt.”

“S’alright,” John said, “can’t feel anything anyway.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, snapped them back open and started to wrestle his coat off. He draped it over John, feeling the chill begin to creep down the back of his neck, then settled on the freezing ground beside him, keeping pressure on the wound as best he could.

“Y’warm,” John murmured, drawing in a soft, startled breath as Sherlock’s hand pressed down.

“That’s the idea. Tell me if this hurts too much.”

He shifted closer, carefully, carefully, John giving stifled whimpers as Sherlock’s clumsy limbs settled themselves. The scent of blood was iron-thick and cloying, coating the back of Sherlock’s tongue, and it felt like he was breathing it into his lungs. This close, he could feel the rabbit-quick beat of John’s heart as it pumped blood around and around and out, spilling uselessly onto the muddy ground. He imagined how it might look later, like an animal had been gutted and eaten.

“This is nice,” said John. The words came out all in a rush, like he’d been saving up his breath for them, and Sherlock felt a warm surge against his fingers as John moved.

“Stop talking. Stay still,” he bit out. One of his hands lay awkwardly behind John's head, and he shifted slowly, cupped his fingers into a cradle. John relaxed into it with a soft noise.

"S'worth it, y'know," he said, ignoring Sherlock. His breathing was shallow, stuttering. "This. You."

"John-"

"I'd do it again." He sounded drunk. Blood loss, and the cold. Sherlock let his fingers drift in the hair behind John's ear.

"Shh," he said, not trusting his voice. 

"Love you," said John.

Sherlock didn't let himself freeze, didn't slow the steady movements of his hand. He was aware of his heart pounding a fluttering, unsynchronised rhythm behind his ribs, and of John's stilted breaths. John had been shot. John was hypothermic and rapidly losing blood, was likely to start saying all sorts of nonsensical things. 

"I-," he said, "yes."

"Yeah," John breathed, before he slumped against Sherlock’s hands, unconscious.

“John,” Sherlock barked, panicked. “John!”

Shaking him would only jostle the wound, and Sherlock hovered his hands uselessly for too long before they brushed against one icy ear. He gave John a sharp pinch.

“Ow,” said John, muzzily. “ _Ow_.”

“You have to stay awake,” said Sherlock, willing his heart to stop hammering so loudly, his stomach to stop twisting itself in knots. It was almost shocking, to realise how useless he was like this, how useless John made him, his usual sharp efficiency bludgeoned by blind panic. Pathetic. John’s skin was so soft against his fingertips.

“Mm-hm,” murmured John, already sounding half-asleep again.

“John--oh, for...John!”

“Stop shouting,” John complained. “I think I was dreaming. Helicopters.”

Sherlock stroked his ear. “You were only unconscious for about half a minute.” 

“Huh,” John mumbled. “I was so sure.”

And suddenly, Sherlock could hear it too; a distant, pulsing whirr. He scrabbled for his phone just as it began to chime.

_3 mins_

He should stand up, make them more obvious to the searchlights beginning to wink on the horizon, but he couldn’t make himself move. The scarf under his hand was sodden, sticky-cold, and he felt as John’s stomach rose and fell under it with his tight, metronomic breaths.

“You can’t--” he heard himself choke out, unable to say the word. John was so quiet.

Three minutes felt like hours, and time slowed, treacly. Sherlock was utterly aware of the shape of John’s body next to him, the smell of his skin and his blood.

“Sherlock.”

There was the beating of helicopter blades nearby, shouting, lights flashing. 

“Sherlock.”

He held John close, his hand still pressed trembling on the scarf, arm aching dull and deep.

“Sherlock, we need to move him.”

He blinked up at Mycroft. “I--”

There was a stretcher, doctors, and he scrabbled out of the way, felt as his brain clicked back into gear.

“Gunshot wound to the stomach,” he barked at them as he leapt to his feet, ignoring the way his limbs tingled as blood surged back into them. “Close range, no more than five feet. He’s hypothermic, beginning to lose consciousness--don’t, I don’t need any help! I’m perfectly--perfectly fine.”

The bright light from the helicopter illuminated his hand, ghoulish and red, and the gleam of the dark wet stain on his suit. Where they had been lying, the ground looked black.

“It’s all his,” he hissed, as the doctor made another grab for his arm. “Go and help him!”

“He’s in good hands, Mr. Holmes. I’m here for you.” She advanced with a blanket. “You’re in shock, and you’re freezing. Please.”

He opened his mouth to shout at her, but there was a hand on his shoulder.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s face was pale, gleaming with sweat. His mouth was a thin line, and his eyes were fixed on John, on the swarm of doctors around him. 

Sherlock slumped. “Fine,” he snapped. Let himself be herded and strapped down, wrapped up. 

The flurry of activity around John continued as they took off, and Sherlock found his eyes settling on the dark, crumpled shape of his coat. The helicopter turned, slowly, and a thin rivulet of blood snaked from it towards his feet. He closed his eyes, listened to the frantic beeping of the machines and the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.

-

John woke slowly, his head pounding, legs heavy. There was a sticky sort of sweetness in his mouth that made him gag when he tried to swallow, and he fumbled for his bedside table, where he usually kept a glass of water. His fingers hit a tangle of wires, and he was suddenly aware of the smell, the low familiar humming sound of a hospital at night, and then of the sharpening throb in his lower belly.

He’d been shot. He’d been shot and Sherlock had been there, and he wasn’t dead. He opened his eyes, to discover that most of the heavy weight on his leg was in fact Sherlock’s head, propped on the curl of his arm. His mouth was open and there was a wet patch on the sheet where he had drooled onto it. John smirked a little, imagining Sherlock’s face at the suggestion he’d do something so common as _drool_.

“Sherlock,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and cracking. Sherlock jerked upright almost immediately, blinking hair out of his eyes.

“John,” he said. “You’re awake.”

“Can I...water?” John croaked.

Sherlock leapt up and strode over to the sink. His exquisite suit was covered in mud and some other dark stains. _Your blood,_ John’s brain supplied helpfully.

He gulped the water gratefully, Sherlock supporting the cup under his mouth as he drank. He gasped when he finished, still horribly thirsty but not wanting to overdo it.

“How long--?”

“You _idiot_ ,” Sherlock shouted, suddenly, impossibly loud in the still little room. 

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed, stomach cramping as he tensed. “What?”

“You got _shot_ ,” spat Sherlock. “You idiotic, careless--you got shot!” He whirled around, hair wild against his pale face, and paced backwards and forwards before slumping himself in a chair next to the bed and glaring at the fluorescent ceiling light.

“Sherlock,” he said, gently. “Sherlock, you had to have known something like this would happen. We get shot at all the time!”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just continued to stare at the ceiling blankly, flipping his phone between his hands. His jaw was tight.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t work out the precise likelihood of one of us being badly hurt at some point. I’m honestly surprised it didn’t happen sooner, and--”

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

“What?”

“Yes, I worked it out. There were variables, of course, not an exact science.”

“Okay,” said John, slowly. “Then I don’t see--”

“I thought it would be me,” hissed Sherlock. “It was supposed to--it should have been me, not you!”

John sat up, gasping at the sudden shock of agony that spiked through him. Sherlock was by his side instantly, phone dropped forgotten on the floor.

“What are you doing, idiot,” he snapped. “Lie down. Here.” His big hands were surprisingly gentle as they pushed John’s shoulders back. John watched his face, the frown pinching between his eyebrows, the downwards slant of his mouth. He brought up the hand that wasn’t stuck full of tubes and carefully brushed a strand of dark hair away from Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“You can’t,” he said, so quiet it was almost inaudible. “You can’t do that again.”

“Sherlock,” said John, trying not to sound too gentle, too...careful. “Sherlock, this is what we do.”

Sherlock’s face twisted into a strange half-smile. “You almost died,” he said, voice thick, and John’s breath caught at the tenderness in his words. “If they’d arrived fifteen minutes later you would have been dead. The cold--the cold helped, slowed your heartbeat. You would have been dead.”

John stroked Sherlock’s hair again. “You’ve been thinking too much,” he said.

“As I repeatedly tell you, there’s no such thing,” Sherlock protested, as he always did, but his eyes were still closed and he looked so young. John felt the ache in his belly spread upwards, and out into his limbs, leaving his fingers trembling where they rested against Sherlock’s ear.

“Sherlock--”

“I know,” Sherlock interrupted. “I know. I’m being ridiculous, and irrational. It’s loathsome.” He blinked his eyes open, dark even in the bright fluorescent hospital light. “I want to kill him.”

John didn’t ask who.

“Not just kill him. I want him to suffer. I would enjoy seeing him-- _making_ him suffer, and I’m well aware that that is _not good_ , and _this_ ,” he gestured helplessly between them, vague. John watched him, aware that this was probably the most inarticulate Sherlock Holmes had ever been.

“This?” he said, after it became clear that Sherlock wasn’t going to elaborate. His belly was still lancing with agony, his legs half-numb, but the feeling welling hopeful in his throat eclipsed them both.

Sherlock huffed, rolled his eyes. Then, carefully, he took John’s hand.

Such a small gesture, John thought. They rarely touched, aside from the odd clap on the back or shoulder, or Sherlock manhandling him from one case to the next. Now, Sherlock’s fingers were cool and smooth, and his thumb traced little circles in the cup of John’s palm. 

“This,” he said. “Okay?”

John struggled upwards, hissing in pain as Sherlock fussed at him, trying to gentle him backwards, but it was worth it, it was so, so worth it when he touched his mouth to Sherlock’s, when Sherlock fumbled against him clumsily, making halting, desperate noises in the back of his throat. 

He pulled back when the pain in his belly became unbearable and lay gasping on the pillow for long moments. Sherlock hovered, frowning in a pinched, nervous sort of way.

“You are an idiot,” he said.

“Okay,” said John. He felt bone tired, all of a sudden. His hand was still clasped in Sherlock’s, lips tingling with the taste of him. He smiled, and Sherlock’s expression softened visibly.

“Okay,” he said again, eyes slipping closed. “Okay.”

“Go to sleep,” he heard Sherlock murmur. “I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

John tried to open his mouth to reply but it was too much effort. The bed was so soft, and he ached in ways that were strangely comfortable. He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers instead, heard Sherlock give a soft, un-Sherlocklike sigh, then there was the ticklish brush of too-long hair against his nose, a warm mouth pressing against his temple. 

_Uffru_ , he managed. He thought Sherlock was probably smart enough to get it.


End file.
